Chapter 9 #2
“Don't tell me you're jealous.” She laughed as a cruel smile played on her lips. “Afraid the Mothers favor me, the wayward child, over their ever-devoted son?” There was a flicker in his eyes, a crack in his otherwise stoic facade. She couldn’t help but push harder, the words flowing like a sharp, sweet poison.
“Perhaps, like your own mother, they too find you lacking.”
The fury that surged across his features provided all the confirmation she required. Yet, her fleeting triumph swiftly curdled as his face contorted into a snarl, pale with rage.
With a vicious flick, Branwen unleashed a tendril of ether toward her.
The sheer audacity of his attack stunned her into stillness, leaving her unable to dodge in time. Not that it would have made a difference—Branwen's bond was with the wind.
Around her, the air thickened, charged with repulsive threads that wrapped around her, constricting her lungs, turning each breath into a struggle. His ether smelled of rot, a sickly sweetness that slithered down her throat, leaving a poisonous trail in its wake.
Branwen's laughter, cold and mocking, echoed around her. With each step he took, she stepped back, a dance of predator and prey until she felt the spines of ancient books dig into her back.
“You think you're so fucking clever?” he sneered, leaning in close, the strands of his greasy black hair brushing against her face. “I know truths about you, secrets that would make your skin crawl. You are nothing. Less than nothing.”
Tears stung Elara's eyes. The weight on her chest, the thick smog in her lungs—darkness began to nibble at the edges of her vision, the last strands of consciousness fraying when the world shifted beneath her in a jarring lurch.
They both crashed to the ground, and through tear-blurred eyes, Elara watched as thick vines surged, yanking Branwen from her side.
With a violent snap, they flung him across the room into a bookcase.
He hit it hard, the thud echoing through the silent archives.
Books tumbled from their shelves, each hitting him with sharp, punishing thwacks, accumulating around him like a verdict rendered by the archives themselves.
But it wasn't archives.
“You imbecile,” Algernon's voice rang out, carrying a weight of disappointment that seemed to chill the very air around them.
Elara blinked hard, trying to clear her vision.
She could just make out the elder Druid.
His usually tranquil eyes were fierce and directed squarely at Branwen.
She looked around to see the once-organized section on the flora of the southern regions in a state of disarray.
Books that Elara had seen cradled in Algernon's hands, cherished and revisited time and time again, lay scattered—their spines broken.
She steeled herself for the Arch Scribe’s reaction to the devastation of his beloved collection, anticipating a tempest to echo his earlier intervention. Yet, when she glanced at him, he met her with an indifference that left her more unnerved than any outburst might have.
Just a single tome teetered precariously on the shelf above Branwen, wavering as if undecided about joining its fallen brethren.
With a subtle flick of his wrist, Algernon summoned a gentle wisp of ether.
Vines sprang from the sturdy bookshelf, delicately encircling the lone book.
They nudged it gently, carefully orchestrating its descent until it landed with a definitive thud atop Branwen's head.
“There's a time to challenge and a time to refrain, young acolyte,” Algernon said calmly, his eyes observing Branwen as he groaned, cradling himself. “True wisdom lies in discerning the difference.”
Despite the lingering bitter taste of Branwen's ether in her mouth, a smirk crept onto Elara's lips.
Algernon turned his gaze to her, the intensity that had previously marked his expression giving way to a softer, gentler demeanor. “On your feet, child,” he instructed, offering his hand.
A tingling sensation spread through her fingertips as she gripped his hand, and her face twisted involuntarily.
Algernon's ether was distinctively pungent.
While all ether carried a tainted aura, his was overwhelming, redolent of the earth in its final throes—a putrid blend of rotting leaves and mold, sickly and decayed.
He ushered her away, his voice cold and crisp as he flung a final instruction over his shoulder. “Attend to your mess. Once you have set things right, come find me. We shall then speak of your... penance.”
With each step she took, the air around her seemed to lighten, the dense fog in her mind starting to clear as thoughts raced through her head.
It struck her—Algernon had leapt into action to save her, abandoning his beloved books to disarray.
Why would he risk them for her? He had never displayed such care for her welfare before. Why start now?
With measured steps, Algernon guided her deeper into the sprawling labyrinth of the archives.
They soon reached a dimly lit alcove. An ornate desk sat bathed in the soft glow of enchanted lanterns nestled amid the towering bookshelves.
Potted plants seemed to spring up from the piles of books, their leaves casting dappled shadows in the flickering light.
“Please, have a seat,” Algernon offered softly, easing himself into his aged wooden rocking chair. But a cat was curled up on the cushioned chair intended for her. Its wonky eyes lazily glanced up at her, quietly asserting its territory, while its tail twitched with mild interest.
“Biscuit,” Algernon called with a calm but authoritative tone, “would you kindly make some space for the Hallowed?”
Biscuit meowed, stretching out slowly before giving her a reproachful look and finally moving aside.
Algernon's lips quirked slightly as Elara settled into the orange-fur coated chair.
He clasped his hands together thoughtfully before beginning.
“Your efforts these past days have been most beneficial,” he began, nodding toward the orderly stack of scrolls between them.
“Thanks to your assistance, I've managed to advance my research significantly.” He leaned back.
“In another life, you would have made an excellent scribe.”
There was a hint of warmth in his voice, a twinkle of kindness, but all Elara felt was a sharp pang of bitterness. Long ago, life’s circumstances crushed those dreams, those "what ifs." Why pine for things that could never be?
She attempted to keep her face impassive, but Algernon's gaze was discerning, almost knowing.
Her mind scrambled as she tried to fill the awkward silence with some semblance of a polite response, but he interrupted her thoughts, producing a delicate piece of paper from his robe.
“A gift,” he murmured, sliding it across the table.
Elara raised an eyebrow. “What's this?”
He leaned back, the ambient light catching the deep lines of his face. “Consider it the beginning of understanding your own tale.”
She huffed a humorless laugh. “I know my story. Forged from the cosmos, blessed by the Mothers, destined to stand but forbidden to wield.” The rehearsed verses flowed from her; words she had chanted, heard, and internalized countless times.
Algernon's chuckle cut through her recited lament.
“What?” she retorted, the sharpness unintentional. But he remained unperturbed, offering a kind smile, while the small piece of parchment sat innocuously between them.
She snatched it up, her annoyance flaring as she struggled to make sense of the hastily scribbled script. It was barely legible, requiring her to pore over it three times before its meaning finally sank in. Her eyes snapped up to Algernon, wide with surprise.
“You’ll require a pair of Avis’s robes,” he announced, a twinkle of amusement in his gaze.
Elara sprang from her seat, the stool falling behind her.
“Have you lost your mind?” Her voice was a hushed whisper, her eyes darting between him and the illicit message.
The loops and scrawls became clearer every time her eyes passed over the words.
“If you still seek answers, they will find you when the sun and moon embrace. Forgive me, Godfrey.”
Elara's thoughts swirled. Mabon—the day the sun and moon stood shoulder to shoulder in the sky. The harvest celebration.
“How do I know this is real?” she whispered.
“It is,” was his placid reply.
Her gaze pierced his. “Why would you help me?”
Algernon reclined in his seat, fingers thoughtfully combing through his gray beard. “Let's just say every tale has its twists, and I'm rather keen to see yours.”
A shiver of apprehension crawled across Elara's skin, a silent warning she couldn't shake.
It was unheard of, even reckless, to venture beyond the Sanct without her usual guard.
Yet, here she was, tempted to place her trust in the old Druid against her better judgment.
Fenlin's recent death and Avis's cryptic hints had left her with too many questions.
And then there was Godfrey. Had he really sent a message from the Pit? Or had he escaped? She needed answers.
“I would be detected the moment I approached the barrier.”
A sly grin graced his features. “Indeed, you would,” he said, unfolding his hand to reveal a jasper ring. “But not while wearing this.”